


ghosts of us

by alwayswhenleastexpected



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (2012), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: AU, Eating Disorder, M/M, Mental Hospital, Peter is miserable, Schizophrenia, Trigger Warnings, Wade is legally insane, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwayswhenleastexpected/pseuds/alwayswhenleastexpected
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is forced to build himself back up, while watching Wade Wilson deteriorate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. conspiracies

**Author's Note:**

> Repeating TRIGGER WARNINGS for eating disorder, schizophrenia, and general mental instability.
> 
> I depended mostly on movie-verse characters for this (huehuehue Ryan Reynolds!Wade), but it's gonna be a mish-mash of things.
> 
> This story shouldn't be too long.
> 
> comment/critique appreciated, I struggled too hard over the prose for this shit. Also does anyone feel like beta'ing? I'm alwayswhenleastexpected on tumblr as well, hit me up.

There was nothing worse in the entire world, Peter decided, than having to sit there helplessly and watch Aunt May cry.

 

No, never mind, there was something worse. It was watching her cry _because of him_.

 

For almost nine months he had been successful in keeping Aunt May oblivious to his deterioration, and now he was watching the illusion fall apart.

 

It had been too difficult with Gwen, the only person he saw more often than his aunt. He should have known she would be the one to piece things together—his excuses at meal times, clothes that hung from a body that seemed to be slowly caving in on itself—but he hadn’t known that the first person she would run to would be Aunt May.

 

“Why did you have to tell her?” Peter was blinking back tears, heart caught in his throat.

 

“She needed to know, Peter. She deserves to know.”

 

He hated the look in Gwen’s eyes, an overwhelming mixture of worry, determination, and pity. It was almost as bad as Aunt May crying.

 

“We just want to help you. You have to be open with us, Peter, please.”

 

But Peter did not want to open. He did not want to let everyone see the emptiness he had been painstakingly cultivating, the hole had had been expanding for the last nine months, left by the death of his uncle Ben.

 

He smiled and fired excuse after excuse—stress from moving into his own apartment, stress from coursework, stress from work, and for a week Gwen’s overbearing concern withdrew, until he got caught trying to empty the entire dinner he had eaten in front of them into the toilet.

 

Peter was then told by Aunt May that both she and Gwen had agreed on a different approach, which he could describe as no less than a malicious conspiracy against him.

 

Gwen held his hand in the cab on the ride to the hospital. Aunt May, with a watery smile, told him she had friends who could vouch for its rehabilitation program.

 

Peter could not help but feel betrayed. The two most important people in his life were locking him inside a strange building with nothing but a garbage bag full of belongings, for who knew how long. Their gaze bore into his back as he was escorted through the heavy doors separating the lobby from the rest of the hospital.

 

He wanted to look back at them one more time, but the doors had already closed behind him.

 

 

 

“Peter, I’m Dr. Reed Richards. I’ll be overseeing your treatment during your stay here.”

 

Peter looked up. Dr. Richards, a tall man with graying hair and a soft face, smiled down at him. Peter shook his hand with an empty smile.

 

Dr. Richards sat down at the table in front of him. He smiled again. “So, Peter, I was just talking to your aunt earlier. We were talking about what led her to decide to bring you here. You’re very close to here, is that correct?”

 

Peter nodded. He wanted to protest this entire process, but his throat felt too tight to speak. He wanted to reassure Dr. Richards that it was all some kind of mistake, that he was too functional and too sane to be holed up in a place like this—

 

“I want you to hear from you, Peter, why she felt it was important that you came here for help.”

 

Peter did not want to tell him anything at all. He shut his eyes, trying to will away the pit in his stomach that was swallowing him whole.

 

When Richards finally let him go with a  clumsy pat on the shoulder, he found himself gazing into his new room—small and nondescript, furnished with a bed, desk, and set of drawers, with a second door leading into a private bathroom.

 

It wasn’t home, but at least it was cleaner than his apartment. And while unfamiliar, the room remained his sanctuary for the moment—a part of his brain supplied images of screaming patients running through the halls, muttering obscenities in a corner, or accusing him of being an alien in disguise. He needed to stop watching so many bad movies.

 

After about ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, however, he decided that he’d rather be mauled by a drooling lunatic than wallow in his pity like this.

 

As it turned out, the common room was not filled with lunatics in straightjackets like he had half expected. In fact, it was quite ordinary, spacious and equipped with a pool table, several bookshelves, and large wall-mounted television. A group of people who were neither drooling nor screaming were gathered around the pool table, and three orderlies sat around a table in the corner, looking bored and occasionally raising their heads from their phones or magazines.

 

The sitting area in front of the TV was currently empty, and Peter shuffled over to one of the armchairs, curling up against the armrest. He recognized _Rush Hour_ playing on the television, and let himself relax slightly.

 

“Oh man, I love Bruce Lee!” a foreign, raspy voice said cheerfully. Out of the corner of his eyes, Peter saw a tall, broad figure dive onto the couch next to him.

 

“That’s Jackie Chan,” he corrected flatly, before he could stop himself. He turned his head to look at the intruder and had to immediately stuff his fist in his mouth to stop from making any kind of reaction.

 

The other man, who had sprawled himself across the entire couch, narrowed his eyes at him, and Peter quickly lowered his hand. He hopelessly tried not to stare at the man’s face, where angry blotches of scar tissue twisted what might have once been a handsome visage, with dark eyes, an elfish nose and defined jaw, into a gaunt mask of marred flesh.

 

Peter tensed as something hostile flashed behind the man’s eyes, but he merely wrinkled his nose at Peter.

 

“Oh, ex- _cuse_ me, know-it-all, but I’ve been watching kung-fu movies since I was in diapers, so I think I can recognized Bruce Lee when I—” his face fell as he redirected his gaze at the TV. “—oh.”

 

Peter smiled apologetically. “I’m pretty sure he died way, _way_ before this movie was made.”

 

“So they want you to think.” The man slowly adjusted himself so that he was spread on his back, tilting his head back awkwardly to glance up and down at Peter. “I bet all the celebrity deaths are set up. It’s a publicity stunt.”

 

Despite being almost too terrified to look directly at this man, Peter found himself snorting in disbelief. “That’s a bit extreme.”

 

“Well, yeah, but think about it. Pretend to kick the bucket, watch as your record sales skyrocket while people cry, and reap the benefits in a cozy cottage with satellite TV and a mountain of weed in the middle of nowhere with the record company’s blessings.”

 

Peter shook his head. The corners of lips twitched in amusement, but at the same time he was worried about the fact that he couldn’t tell if the man was being serious or not.

 

Before he could say anything else, however, a new voice growled from behind him, “Wade, stop trying to sell your ridiculous conspiracy theories.”

 

Suppressing an undignified squawk, Peter whipped his head around to look at the newcomer, a short and gruff-looking man whose employee card identified him as an orderly.

 

Wade sat upright and pouted at him. “But what if I actually manage to overthrow the government because I can finally prove that they’re putting mind-controlling substances in the water?”

 

“Ain’t nothing you’re gonna get done from this place, bub. Stop scaring the other patients, one of them might actually believe you.”

 

Wade turned to Peter. “Did you believe me?”

 

Peter shook his head. 

 

“See, Logan! He didn’t believe me.”

 

Logan sighed, glancing at Peter. “Leave the poor kid alone, Wade,” he said as he retreated to sit with the rest of the orderlies.

 

Wade huffed dramatically. “They act like I terrorize everyone in this place. I didn’t even _do_ anything.”

 

Peter was staring determinedly at the floor, growing increasingly more uncomfortable.

 

“What’s your name, kid?”

 

He looked up. Wade was watching him, eyebrows raised as if Peter was an interesting piece of art in a museum.

 

“It’s Peter,” he replied quietly.

 

Wade grinned and he sat back, his body twisting on the couch. “Ah, Peter. Pretty, pretty Peter.  Peter Piper. Peter Piper picked a pack of—what was it?”

 

At this point Peter was sure Wade was speaking more to himself than to him, and he turned away nervously, wondering if he should fetch an orderly or just bolt for the safety of his room.

 

“Peteeey. Hey, Peter.”

 

Oh. Wade was still talking to him.

 

“Did I scare ya off already?”

 

Peter looked back, his shoulders hunched nervously. Wade was still grinning, but Peter caught something in his eyes that made his stomach churn with reluctant sympathy.

 

“They’re, uh, still adjusting my meds?” Wade tried, when Peter did nothing but stare at him.

 

“Oh,” was all Peter could say.


	2. vitamins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter adjusts to the hospital, and to the strange presence that is Wade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm, I just wanted to say thanks for reading! Feel free to point out any inconsistencies and such.

Peter sat completely still, staring down at his lunch. The nurse sitting next to him, Felicia, put a hand on his arm. “One more bite, Peter.”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

“You skipped breakfast. It’s important you eat a little.”

 

“I’m. Not. Hungry,” Peter repeated.

 

To his credit, he did take a bite of the peas. They were too salty and dry.

 

“You know, I’m not even sure why you’re trying to get him to eat hospital food anyway,” another voice said. A brunet with a stylized beard sat his tray down at the table in front of Peter, smiling wryly. “That meatloaf there? Terrible, chewy stuff. Why not start him with Burger King or something?”

 

“Tony,” snapped Felicia. “Please don’t interfere with someone’s treatment—”

 

“Oh yeah, bad meatloaf, the cure for all,” Tony smirked.

 

Peter stood up, chair screeching against the floor.

 

“Peter, please, at least finish the apple juice. It’s not as bad as the meat loaf!” Felicia tried to plead.

 

He was shaking his head, abandoning his tray and heading for the exit. Behind him, Tony quipped to the nurse, “Gee, you’re really good at this.”

 

Out in the hall, Peter rubbed at his eyes, trying to quell his frustration. Tony had been mostly right—if he was going to recover from this, it wasn’t going to be with the food they served here.

 

“Hey Petey!”

 

Peter jerked and looked around, recognizing Wade sauntering up to the dining room. Immediately his stomach knotted itself again. He wasn’t entirely sure if it had to do with Wade’s face or not—but the man set him on edge whenever he saw him.

 

“What’s for lunch? Please don’t tell me it’s meatloaf again. I swear to god, last week I saw something moving in it and I flipped the entire fucking table. I think it was like an alien organism trying to plant its spawn inside of me. And I wasn’t even hallucinating!”

 

Peter did not know how to react to that. “I, uh… well they are actually having meatloaf, today…” He watched Wade carefully, worried about some kind of irrational outburst. “But you know, there’s always a vegetarian option, so…” he added, trying to be helpful.

 

Wade groaned. “Do I look like a vegetarian to you?”

 

“I really don’t—no, I guess not,” Peter answered, shrugging his shoulders. He sighed inwardly, hoping Wade would leave him to go mope in his room.

 

“I tried it once, lasted about half an hour before I decided a double bacon cheeseburger sounded like the most delicious thing in the world. Speaking of which—no offense, baby boy, but you look like you could use a double cheeseburger or two. Or like, six,” Wade finished, leaning towards the younger man, eyes sweeping over his body.

 

Peter swallowed, his mouth pressing down into a tight line. “Y-yeah, it’s funny how people have been telling me that lately,” he said coldly. Before Wade could say something else, he shoved past him, wrapping his arms around himself and nearly jogging back to his room.

 

 

 

Dr. Richards found him in his room later in the afternoon, laying in the dark with his face buried in his stiff pillow.

 

“I don’t like being here,” Peter told him. It was all he could say, in lieu of wanting to whimper about his utter isolation and the patronizing voices of the nurses who wanted him to eat.

 

“Well, Peter, I think if you did, we’d really have something to worry about,” Richards replied with a small smile. “Have you been eating at all?”

 

“No.”

 

There was a pause, where Richards simply stood and looked at Peter curled up on the bed. “Would you like to talk a little about why you haven’t felt like eating?”

 

“No.”

 

Another pause. “Okay, Peter,” Richards said, shuffling his feet. “I’ll be back tomorrow, alright?”

 

Peter did not reply. He remained lying on his bed, unresponsive whenever an orderly poked their head in to check on him, until after dinner, when he was told he had a visitor.

 

He was led to a large sterile conference room, where a small handful of patients conversed with their visitors at various tables set throughout the space. After a long, tight hug, Gwen sat with him at one of these tables, where she reassured him that his business at work and school was being taken care of, and that he didn’t have to worry about any of it until he was discharged. Peter remained mostly silent, but nodded gratefully.

 

Gwen looked at him uncertainly, and then reached for his hand, laying hers across it gently.

 

“I understand if you don’t want to tell me whatever this… whatever’s happening to you, Peter.” She looked sad, which made Peter hate himself even more.

 

“Please don’t—” he choked out, and Gwen squeezed his hand.

 

“It’s okay, Peter. It’s okay. But promise me you’ll let… _somebody_ help you.”

 

Tears blurred his vision. “Okay,” he told her, squeezing back.

 

 

When she left, Peter skulked back to the common room, where he found Wade trying to coax another patient into handing him the remote.

 

“—you can watch CSI whenever you want, man, I haven’t seen Bea Arthur’s beautiful face since I was brought into this goddamn place—”

 

Peter tried to settle into a nearby armchair without attention, but Wade spotted him and leaped, eyes pleading.

 

“Pete, my friend! Help me educate this philistine on quality television. Golden Girls versus CSI. Bea Arthur versus William Peterson.” He leaned in and whispered, “Bea Arthur’s the obvious choice here, by the way.”

 

Confused, Peter tried to recall what he had done in his two days here to qualify as Wade’s friend, but came up blank.

 

He raised his hands defensively. “I’ve never even watched Golden Girls, so I don’t…” He paused, watching Wade’s lips curl into an exaggerated pout. “… but uh, Bea Arthur is really great,” he tried instead.

 

It seemed to work. Peter watched, rather amused, as Wade grinned triumphantly, turning back to the other man, who glared at him. “Two against one, Bono. You’re stuck with us and the girls.”

 

When the man had left the room, grumbling, Wade settled back into the couch. “Love conquers all,” he declare in a sing-song voice, flashing a dazzling smile at Peter.

 

To his own surprise, Peter smiled back.

 

 

In the morning, Felicia greeted him with a medicine cup full of fat pills. Peter eyed them warily, opening his mouth to refuse them.

 

“They’re just vitamins,” Felicia explained quickly. “We just want to make sure you’re not developing any deficiencies.”

 

Peter stared at her. She smiled, holding out the pills and a cup of water wordlessly. After hesitating, he accepted them.

 

“Do you want to eat your breakfast in here?” she asked after he gulped down his water.

 

“No,” he replied easily.

 

“Do you want me to bring you a coffee or something?”

 

Peter looked at her again. Felicia was very pretty, with platinum blond hair and a full figure—in a corner of his mind, he saw himself stuttering and smiling stupidly while meeting her inside a Coffee Bean, as she pitied him with a smirk.

 

But he did not smile or stutter here, and right now she was looking at him with a different, softer kind of pity. It made his stomach twist.

 

“No, thank you,” he repeated, idly squeezing the plastic cup in his hand.

 

“It’s better if you eat a little something, so those pills get digested properly. Are you sure you don’t want a piece of toast? Or fruit?”

 

This made Peter want to scream at her. Irritation seeped through his skin, and he itched to tell her to go away and stop trying to shove food down his throat.

 

She did nothing but watch him patiently, and his anger subsided after a moment. Felicia was kind to him, and did not deserve his screaming or stubbornness, he decided.

 

He smiled faintly instead. “Um, I’ll have a piece of toast then, I guess.”

 

Felicia’s face brightened. “Great!” she said. “Let me take that cup and I’ll bring you something.”

 

She left the room, and Peter remained hunched over on his bed, staring at the floor.

 

A shadow at his door, which had been left open by Felicia, interrupted his thoughts.

 

“Peter!” a familiar, raspy voice rang out. “Love what you’ve done with the place. Has a great ‘help I’m in a mental hospital’ feel to it.”

 

Peter raised his head to look at Wade, who was leaning into his room with both hands on the door frame.

 

“Morning, Wade,” he said dully. He was too busy thinking about the previous conversation with Felicia to be properly annoyed at Wade invading his private space like this.

 

“Why so gloomy, Petey?”

 

Peter rubbed his face in attempt to clear his head. “I’m—I’m not—Wade, why are you even—”

 

“Wilson! What are you doing? Get out of Peter’s room!”

 

Wade jumped. “I technically wasn’t _in_ his room,” he argued as he stepped aside for Felicia, who pushed past him to set a plate with a piece of toast and little cups of margarine and jam on Peter’s desk. “Hey hot nurse, why don’t I get room service?”

 

Felicia rolled her eyes. “Because you were in the dining room trying to convince Bob that he was eating scrambled cow brains instead of eggs.”

 

“Well, I’m just saying, that’s what they looked like—”

 

She shooed him away from Peter’s doorframe. “Leave Peter alone now. Dr. Xavier’s gonna come looking for you in a few minutes.”

 

“Later, Petey!” Peter heard Wade call from the hallway. Felicia smiled apologetically at him, closing his door halfway as she left.

 

Peter eyed the toast, agitation bubbling in his stomach.

 

Dr. Richards would be happy if he ate the toast. Felicia would be happy. She might even forgo cajoling him at lunch time. He ignored the butter and jam, picking at the burnt crust. The bread felt dry and coarse in his mouth.

 

He dropped the rest of the toast back on the plate, feeling sick.

 


	3. chicken noodle soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade asks if Peter is a cyborg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's kind of short but the next bit doesn't really fit with this chunk so here it is. Feedback is always appreciated.

This is so stupid, Peter thought as he sat in one of the recreational therapy rooms, glaring at the paper and paint brushes laid out in front of him.

 

“This is so stupid,” Tony echoed his thoughts next to him. Peter glanced over and could not help but smirk when he saw that Tony had written “I want a fucking beer” with his paint brush on his own sheet of paper.

 

“I think it’s a masterpiece,” Peter told him.

 

Tony grinned. “You think? I wonder if they’ll let me hang it up.”

 

Peter looked back at his blank sheet, frowning slightly. Despite his frustration with art therapy, however, he felt surprisingly at peace for the first time in three days. Tony, with his graying beard and classic metal band tees, was obnoxiously clever, arrogant, and talked almost as much as Wade did, but made good company when Peter needed it.

 

“I think I’ve unlocked my inner Picasso. Surely this is the last piece in my quest for self-discovery and healing. Call Pepper, I’m ready to go home now!” Tony called to the RT supervisor, Kitty. Peter chuckled next to him.

 

They were herded to the dining hall afterwards. At Dr. Richards’ suggestion, Peter conceded to join them, fidgeting in front of his tray. One of the night nurses, Natasha, sat with him and nodded encouragingly, but did not coax him verbally.

 

Peter gazed absentmindedly at his food, which consisted of a bowl of chicken noodle soup and crackers, with a tall glass of water placed by the corner of his tray. He wondered how long he would have to sit there until Natasha relented and let him go hide in his room.

 

The sound of a tray being slammed onto the table in front of him jerked him out of his thoughts and he looked up. Wade and his marred face were smiling at him from across the table. Next to him sat Logan, who seemed to wear a permanent scowl whenever he was around Wade.

 

“Hey, so you _can_ eat here with the rest of us. I was wondering about that. For a while I thought maybe you were a werewolf or something, and they had to let you out during meal times so you could go kill and eat a deer in the woods. Heh, that would be badass. But I guess you’re not a werewolf, since you’re uh, eating chicken soup. Chicken soup isn’t very badass.”

 

Peter reached for his water so he wouldn’t have to respond to Wade immediately. He glanced sideways at Natasha, who was smirking at Logan, who in turn was glaring at Wade.

 

Wade chewed noisily on his chicken parmesan. “I guess the chicken’s not so bad here. Better than their meatloaf. I wish they had tacos here. Or chimichangas. Wow, I love that word. Chimichangas. Chimichangas…”

 

Over the top of his glass, Peter spotted Tony approaching his table, stopping in his tracks when he noticed Wade, and turning to a different table. He threw Peter a sympathetic look over his shoulder. Peter tried not to choke on his water.

 

He began to idly shove noodles around in the soup with his spoon, taking turns listening to Wade chatter incessantly in between and during mouthfuls, and watching the vein in Logan’s temple trying desperately not to explode.

 

“Did the soup do something to offend you? Or was I right, you’re actually a werewolf and don’t eat normal food? Oh my god, are you a cyborg? Please tell me you’re a cyborg, I’ve always wanted to meet one.”

 

Peter looked at Wade, who was leaning forward eagerly. Next to him, Logan cleared his throat.

 

“I’m not a cyborg,” said Peter, frowning.

 

“Oh.” Wade sat back, deflating slightly. “Are you not gonna eat your soup then? ‘Cause if you don’t, I will.”

 

Peter was ready to push his tray towards Wade, but Natasha stopped him. “Two spoonfuls,” she said.

 

“Ooh, can I spoon feed him?”

 

“Wade!” Logan growled.

 

Peter looked down at his soup and swallowed heavily.

 

“Well wait a minute, if the kid doesn’t wanna eat, then he doesn’t have to eat, it’s a free country, isn’t it?”

 

“Be quiet, Wade,” Natasha said warningly. She leaned towards Peter. “Two spoonfuls means progress. Progress means getting out of here faster. You can handle this, Parker,” she told him softly.

 

He glanced nervously around him. Wade was watching him, silent for once, a fork hovering in front of his mouth.

 

Logan cleared his throat again. “Is he making you uncomfortable, kid?” Peter didn’t have to ask whether he meant Wade, and when the man in question protested with “Hey, I didn’t do anything, why are you—” Logan shushed him with a glare.

 

Peter shook his head. “No, no… he’s fine.”

 

Logan’s brow furrowed, and he turned to Wade. “You keep staring like that and I’m dragging you back to your room without dessert.”

 

Wade pouted and grumbled, lowering his head and picking at what was left of his dinner. He peeked at Peter curiously every few seconds, and Peter rolled his eyes.

 

Having Wade watch him made something inside of him shift uncomfortably, but it distracted him. He looked down at his tray, and for a moment he felt no threats screaming inside of him when he looked at the food.

 

It was just another bowl of chicken noodle soup.

 

He picked up his spoon. The soup was lukewarm at this point, but didn’t taste terrible, and he let himself swallow the second spoonful easily enough. Natasha nodded in acknowledgement.

 

“Alright, you can go,” she said, reaching for the tray.

 

He remained sitting for a moment, looking at Wade, who now sat with his chin in his hand, staring Peter curiously.

 

“Enjoy the show?” asked Peter dryly.

 

Wade smirked. “Are you kidding? In the other ward I once watched a guy shit into his own hand, mix it into the food, and then try to throw it at people. You are thoroughly uninteresting,” he declared.

 

Peter groaned silently, his face scrunching in disgust. “What is wrong with you.”

 

He hadn’t really meant to say that out loud. Natasha coughed emphatically and glanced at Logan, who started with “Okay, I think this is—” but was cut off by Wade, who seemed to be excited by the unintentional question.

 

He was grinning wide, scars warping his face. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper, “I see dead people.”

 

Peter stared at him. Wade blinked. “Okay, maybe not really. But I do hear voices. Well, not so much anymore, thanks to Xavier, but—”

 

Logan stood abruptly, a large hand settling on Wade’s shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough outta you.”

 

Wade shrugged, dropping his fork on his plate with a loud clatter. “He asked.” He shoved his tray towards Logan. “Do I still get dessert?”

 


End file.
